Their relationship changes our group dynamics a little, but, it’s cool. We’ve been friends for too long to let something like this get in our way. And I’m happy for them - they’re really great together.
“Want to line up and grab a beer?” Lucas suggests as we get close to the crowd.
“You guys go. I’ll check things out. Text me when you’re done, though,” I say, breaking away from them and heading to the edge of the crowd. I begin to push my way through, keeping my ears open for any piece of information on this fight club type-thing that’s rumoured to go down here.
Looking around the open paddock, I see various groups standing together, drinking, talking, dancing to the crash of the distorted music that sounds more like noise than any sort of real song.
“Shit,” I hiss, as I stumble slightly, tripped by a stick on the ground that flicks up and nicks my ankle causing it to sting and bleed. I knew I should have worn jeans. But Sisley insisted I should wear a stupid fucking skirt and skate shoes to a property out bush. Granted, dressed this way, I almost fit in with the rest of the women here. But I feel ridiculous because this isn’t how I would normally dress. I wear pants. Always pants.
Seeing that the scrape is only small, I right myself and push my dark curls out of my eyes. I come face-to-face with a guy I’m sure I’ve seen somewhere before. I feel like I know him, yet I’m sure we’ve never spoken before.
I tilt my head a little, studying him as he studies me in return. He has blue eyes, like me, a strong jaw and straight brown hair that flops over his right eye when he moves. And on top of that, he’s taller than me and positively beautiful. He has the kind of face you want to draw, just to be able to stare at it unabashedly.
He glances at my ankle then folds his long, lean body into a crouch in front of me, reaching out to gently brush his fingertips around the scratch, assessing the damage. A heat travels up my leg where he touches me, and it’s as if everything around us falls away and the crowd is no more. There’s just the two of us in a quiet clearing, as I force my brain to place him in my memory.
“I don’t think it’ll bleed for too long,” he says, before releasing my ankle and standing. I follow his ascent, tilting my head back slightly when he hits his full height, our eyes locking as he reaches up and brushes his hair away from his eyes, tucking it behind his ear as his mouth pulls up into a half grin. He knows me as well.
I open my mouth to speak to him; to ask him who he is. But when he releases his hair, it falls right back to where it was, hiding that one eye and somehow cutting us off from each other as he moves on without another word.
Turning my body, I continue watching him, following his movement with my eyes as if I’m somehow caught in his orbit. It feels weird, but I can’t look away. Even when he turns back, his blue eyes piercing from across the crowd, he catches me still staring at him. I just stand there – caught. It isn’t until Sisley clicks her fingers in front of my face that I finally snap out of it.
“We got you a beer anyway,” she says, handing me a clear plastic cup and following my gaze.
“Jeez, I wonder what Zac Rivers is doing here? I thought he took off after year ten,” she comments, watching as his head moves away from us above the crowd because of his height. “Shame he’s such a weirdo. He’s really ridiculously good-looking.”
“Who’s good-looking?” Lucas asks.
“You are, babe,” Sisley smiles, leaning up against his side.
“I wonder where he’s going,” I muse.
“Where who’s going?” Lucas asks again, trying to catch up with the conversation.
“Zac Rivers,” Sisley informs him. “Evie’s got the stares on him.”
“I have not got the stares,” I argue. “What are the stares anyway?”
“Yeah, what the hell are the stares?” Lucas asks.
“When you can’t stop looking at some hot guy,” Sisley tells us.
“The stares? On Zac Rivers? Isn’t he some crazy or something? I remember him when he was still at school. He was always getting into fights. Super freaking weirdo. He only hung out with his siblings — remember that? They used to call him Edward Cullen because he wouldn’t talk to anyone, like the Cullens in Twilight. Totes weird.”
“I remember that,” Sisley laughs. I remember that too, actually, the comment jogged my memory. I don’t remember the teasing, but I do remember the fighting. I remember watching him from a distance and wondering what he was so angry about, and now…I wonder why he left?
“Well, he’s obviously not a vampire, but he is going somewhere. Look. People are following him,” I point out, jutting my chin forward as we see various people drop away from the main crowd and migrate toward the thick bush line.
“Wanna check it out?” Sisley asks, and I nod, stepping forward before being stopped by Lucas’ grip on my arm.
“Wait. Do we really want to do this? I mean, what if we get caught? It could mess up our chance of getting into a good uni next year. And what if we go into the bush and get lost? Or what if they’re just luring people in there to kill them and eat their flesh?”
“Jesus, Lucas,” I laugh. “You watch way too much TV. You can stay here if you want. But I’m going to check it out. Zac was known for fighting at school, so it’s our best bet. Come. Stay. Whatever. But I’m going.”
“Fine,” he sighs, following behind me with Sisley as I follow the trail of people toward the bush.
As we embark down a dusty walking track we see some dull flashlights held in the hands of men who are stopping everyone.
“Spectator or participant?” One asks us, although he’s mainly asking Lucas, who is decently tall and built in his own right. He kind of just looks at Sisley and me; up and down, as if he’s assessing our fuckability.
“Spectating,” I answer for all of us, pissed that it’s not even a question for a woman – I could have this guy on his arse in seconds and he wouldn’t even know what hit him.
“Ten bucks each to get in.” We dig around in our purses for the cover charge and hold it out to him. “Do you know the rules?” he asks as he chews gum and takes the money from each of us.
“Don’t talk about it?” I suggest, with a slight grin and a raised eyebrow.
“Cute,” he deadpans, not amused by my Fight Club reference at all. “Spectators must stay away from the cage at all times. No interference will be tolerated, or you’ll be escorted off the premises and never allowed back in. Got it?”
Nodding, we hold out our wrists as we’re stamped with one of those black light images that can’t be seen by the naked eye.
I wonder what the purpose is - it’s not like we’re in a nightclub where black lights are just part of the scenery. But my question is answered as we continue down the path and are constantly checked by guards holding portable black lights to make sure we’ve paid our cover charge.
“Shit, this is all very clandestine,” Lucas comments, staying close to Sisley.
“It’s so dark out here. And what the hell is that red glow?” Sisley asks, raising her hand to point at the glow coming from between the tree line up ahead.
“Aliens,” Lucas states as a matter of fact.
Our wrists get checked again and the guard, overhearing us, asks, “First time?”
“That obvious?” I laugh.
“A bit. Listen, I’m not going lie, it gets crazy in there. People push and shove a lot. Just stay back from the actual fight and stick together.”
“What’s the deal with the red light?” I ask.
“Visibility. White light would make us a big shining beacon. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you why that’s a bad thing.”
He looks at me pointedly, and I nod my response before moving on, feeling even more drawn to the light and the yelling that can now be heard over the band we left back at the party.
I can’t help but marvel at how clever this whole set up is. I also can’t help but wonder how they are getting away with this without the cops finding out.
&nbs
p; As I break through the tree line, the smell of dust and heated bodies hits my senses and my world becomes bathed in red. We’re in a clearing. All around us are tall eucalyptus trees and a crowd of people that surrounds a makeshift cage. Two men wrestle in the centre, their shirts off and their skin glistening white under the red. One has his arm wrapped around the other’s neck as he pummels him in the ribs with his other fist. It’s surreal and feels a little dangerous. My heart thuds in my chest — not from fear, but from excitement. I step forward, wanting to get closer, drawn to the fight like a moth to the flame.
“Stay together,” Sisley yells in my ear, linking her arms with mine and stopping me before I can break away.
“Then come on,” I tell her, pulling her and Lucas through the crowd in a train to get a closer look.
We’re jostled back and forth and I really need to fight for position. We make it as close as we can, until a wire crowd control barrier blocks our forward progression.
The fighters hit the ground hard and break apart, quickly moving to regain their footing. I stand, watching with wide eyes as they jump back up and circle each other.
The dirt from the ground sticks to their skin in a darker shade of red as they lunge at one another. The crowd roars different commands and when one lands a hit, the other’s head flicks to the side with such speed that a spray of what I hope is only sweat, lands on my arm.
I hear Sisley squealing in disgust as she hides behind Lucas. But I don’t move. I’m transfixed by the man still standing. There’s something about the look in his eyes, so primal and desperate. It’s as if he’s using the power of his will to keep his opponent on the ground and it isn’t until a guy with a bullhorn walks over and lifts his arm, that his gaze moves and somehow finds mine.
“Winner Zac ‘Steel Fist’ Rivers!”
“Holy shit, Edward Cullen can fight,” Lucas says in awe.
I hear them talking in the background. I hear the crowd, the announcer, everything. But it’s all muted beneath the sound of my heart, pounding in my ears as I continue to lock my gaze with Zac’s. I can’t look away.
Two
Zac
“Next round, Mick ‘The Warrior’ Walker and Ryan ‘Lightning Strike’ Selby. Winner takes on ‘Steel Fist’.” The announcer yells into the handheld bullhorn he carts around with him to be heard.
The way he just called it is the way this works — past winners fight first and they have to try and fight till the end and be the last one standing. Then, the money is yours. Very few fighters have managed to win time and time again, and I hope to fuck I can do it. Because, if I make it to the end, I get the entire pot. That’s a cool five grand.
Last time, I entered the ring halfway through the night and only made two grand. This time, I’m fighting from the beginning. I can take a hit, and I can throw a mean punch. It’s the only reason I’m still alive and fighting today.
I scan the crowd, watching them frantically place bets before the next fight begins. One fight down and maybe eight to go depending on how many people paid to fight.
I exit the ring and take a mouthful of the water Jason offers me, before pouring it over my head and down my back. Jason is my stepbrother; he and I train and come to these events together. He hasn’t gotten as far through a night as I have, but he keeps trying all the same. Fighting is a good place for us to get out our anger over having to deal with his father – my stepdad – and the shit storm that man has left behind him.
“Take it easy, bro. That’s the only one I’ve got,” he says, taking the bottle from my hands and screwing the lid back in place. I let out my breath, wishing I could cool down. But it’s so fucking hot and all these bodies are just making it hotter.
A few people congratulate me on how well I just fought, but I just nod. No time to celebrate just yet. I need to focus. I need to keep winning. That money is everything.
Rolling my shoulders, I take a deep breath and keep my eyes on the guys entering the ring, picking apart their moves so I can find that open door that will ensure I win my next fight quickly. It’s the one thing living with my stepdad taught me. I know I can do this. I can fight all night if I have to. I’ve done it before. I can do it again. I fucking need this money. We’re suffering without it.
But my eyes keep focusing on a girl in the crowd. She’s taller than most, so her dark curly hair stands out above the rest of the spectators. I don’t normally pay attention to the girls who hang out here until the end of the fight. But this one is different–I know her.
I know her from before everything changed. Back then, she was like me – a person they used for their wicked games. I haven’t seen her for two years almost, and it’s strange seeing her here now. Before, I saw her back near the band. I thought she was here for the party. I saw her hurt herself and for some reason, I knelt in front of her to check if she was OK. I don’t really know why I did that. Girls trip on sticks out here all the time, but like I said, she’s different.
Now, here she is again, and she’s been watching me fight and she’s watching me now. It’s not in that ‘come fuck me way’ that most girls do. It’s completely unabashed watching, as if she really sees me. It’s a lot like the way I used to watch her…
She didn’t even flinch when the blood sprayed across her, and got the sleeve of her shirt. It left behind a diagonal dotted red line. She just stood there, watching, transfixed. Something about the way she watches me makes me feel powerful. It makes me feel unbeatable. The way she watches me makes me feel like a king. I like it.
A small Chinese girl with bright orange hair says something to her that makes her turn away. I watch her interact with her friends. She leans in close and points to fighters in the cage, moving her hands as if she’s discussing their moves or level of skill. It’s interesting to watch because it’s a direct opposition to the yelling and screaming that’s going on around her. Her eyes move between the fighters to me, and for a while, I feel like I’m a part of her conversation, allowing my eyes to move back and forth with hers. It’s as if she’s critiquing their moves. I like watching the way her hands move as she describes something to her friend. I wonder what her deal is? Then, I remember her family runs some sort of martial arts gym - Fighting Fit, it’s called. Her dad is supposed to be some sort of crazed ex-con or something. That’s part of why she was given a hard time at school. People were scared of her – especially when the guys that were using her and spreading intimate details started to get beat up.
I stop watching the fight and keep my gaze on her, noting how she seems to struggle to tear her eyes away from mine. I don’t even want to look away. For the first time since I saw her all those years ago, I’m not looking away.
Her conversation seems to stop suddenly, and from across the cage, she tilts her head to the side, her mouth curving into a gorgeous smile that feels like some sort of reward.
I remember the way she always smiled back at school, as if none of the talk bothered her. I used to watch her then, just like I’m watching her now. I wonder if she’s still the same…
Dragging my eyes away from her, I force myself to focus on the fight. But I can’t stop my mind from wanting to keep watching her as she does her own thing. I wish I could have had her attitude at school. I wish I had her confidence now. The only time I’m confident is when I’m using my fists. It’s the only time I feel in control. And I want control. I need control.
Three
Evie
“Holy shit. That guy just won’t go down,” Lucas comments, as we see Zac Rivers in yet another fight. Six wins so far; if he wins again, he wins the night.
The way this has been working means he’s fighting against guys who have only had one fight before him. They’re fresh in comparison. It’s a dumb system, but the crowd loves it. And Zac keeps winning.
“I guess this is why they call him Steel Fist,” Sisley comments, wincing when we witness Zac landing a loud thump into the side of his opponent’s head.
The crowd releases a mixture
of groans, gasps and cheers as the guy crumples and falls to the ground, barely moving.
Zac stands above him, his sweat-damp hair falling forward as his lean chest heaves and his wrapped fists curl and release by his sides. He isn’t a huge guy. He’s more of the tall sinewy type that then bulky strength. But he hits like he has the force of ten men behind him and dodges like he has the ability to see ahead of time.
His eyebrow bleeds and his lip is swollen. But other than that, he seems unharmed. He has a natural instinct that, so far, has served him well.
“The steel fist is all he has. You can tell he’s had zero training,” Lucas says. “He barely uses kicks or holds. He’s just raw aggression.”
“No. He’s had some sort of training. You don’t get that good without it,” I add. “But he definitely has this great instinct which is something you can’t teach. I mean, look at him. He has this…this desperation about him. It’s like his very life depends on winning this fight. His focus is unbelievable.”
Lucas chuckles.
“What?” I demand, frowning as I turn to look at him.
“Nothing. Just you. I haven’t seen you this interested in some guy for years.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m not interested in him. I’m interested in his ability and his motivation,” I argue.
“I’m also interested in that,” Sisley nods slowly, her eyes traveling from the top of Zac’s head all the way down, lingering on his defined chest before landing on his feet and travelling back up again, slowly. “I’m only watching so intently to critique his moves.”
“Seriously? That’s the story you’re going with?” Lucas counters, somewhat amused despite his girlfriend’s obvious ogling. “What do you need to critique his moves for?”
Sisley shrugs, dragging her eyes from Zac to look at Lucas. “It comes with our love of Ultimate Fighter. We can’t help it. Just like you can’t stop critiquing tattoos after watching Ink Master. If you go and try to hang out at Custom Flesh with Evie’s dad again, I reckon he’s going to tattoo ‘fuck off’ on your forehead.”
Drawn to Fight: Zac & Evie Page 2